


Retribution of the most bloody kind

by ShapeShiftersandFire



Series: The Bellows Are Gone [1]
Category: Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark (2019), Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark Series - Alvin Schwartz
Genre: Blood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pre-Canon, delanie is up first and harold is on deck, i hate this fam, time to yeet the Bellows off the face of the earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShapeShiftersandFire/pseuds/ShapeShiftersandFire
Summary: Delanie and her sons, Ephraim and Harold, shared a small house on top of a hill just outside the village.Or, Delanie's name is the first to appear in the book.
Series: The Bellows Are Gone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596235
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Retribution of the most bloody kind

**Author's Note:**

> _Under the waves and the earth of an age, lie a thousand old northerners' graves_
> 
> -Lord Huron, Ghost on the Shore

The book Ephraim had placed back on the shelf is out on the desk again, opened this time to a new page. In the dark of the basement, the sound of a pen on paper fills the space. Red writing flows over the page, the beginnings of a new story.

 _The Window_ is scrawled on the very top line. Below that, the first sentence: _Delanie and her sons, Ephraim and Harold, shared a small house on top of a hill just outside the village._

Putting another log onto the fire is not a task Delanie Bellows would willingly take upon herself. But in the absence of Sylvie and Lou Lou, the former fired in the wake of Sarah’s death, it was a task that was necessary. She gingerly sets the log on top of the already precariously stacked pile, the logs already frail and weakened with fire, and reaches for the poker to shove the log on the rest of the way. Ashes and embers sprinkle down over the brick; Delanie pulls the hem of her dress away from the few stray embers that roll over the edge of the fireplace.

The house is notable quieter these days, and empty, however much Delanie refuses to admit. Sylvie and Lou Lou’s departure has left a hole in the atmosphere in the house. In the background, no matter what anyone had been doing, there was always the sound of Lou Lou and Sylvie doing on thing or another around the house. Now, there is nothing but silence, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the snapping of burned wood as Delanie shoves the log further into the flames. 

The other silence in the house is one she’s long gotten used to. Sarah had already been gone for two months, since early December, locked away at Pennhurst where she belonged. The little brat had tried to ruin the Bellows, ruin their business, ruin everything Deodat and Harold had worked so hard to create. She’d tried to play the hero, and she’d paid for it. A nice little stay in Pennhurst and all the time in the world for her to understand what happens when you betray the Bellows family. 

Now, two months later, Delanie can’t say the same. Sarah was gone, of her own volition, by her own hand, and Delanie blamed Ephraim for not keeping an eye on Sarah as much as he blamed himself. Sarah wasn’t supposed to have done that, she wasn’t supposed to have taken her own life, taken matters into her own hands like that. She was supposed to have confessed, she was supposed to have taken the blame for the mercury-laden water, for the children that had been poisoned. That had been her burden to carry— _For once you can be useful to this family_ —and she’d gotten out of it because Ephraim hadn’t _watched her_. 

The new log snaps, much like Delanie’s anger. The fury she’d felt on the day Ephraim had come home with the news still simmers in the pit of her stomach, and she still has yet to figure out who to blame for it. Ephraim? Sarah? Deodat? Herself? All of them?

(Not Harold—he’d been in charge of the mill while Deodat had had his hands full with his fool of a daughter—the same one he loved _oh so much_. But not enough to fight with Delanie or Ephraim when they’d suggested shipping her out.)

What she knows for sure is she won’t be missing Sarah. Maybe she’ll miss not having someone to vent her frustrations on, maybe she’ll miss no longer having anyone to blame for the family’s inconveniences. But she won’t miss having Sarah around.

Conversely, she’ll never have to be reminded of the affliction that runs through her family; the affliction that _she carried_ , that tainted her eyes, that led to the nickname “Bright Eyes” following her at every waking moment until she and Deodat finally left that wretched Rhode Island town in the dust.

 _She has your eyes,_ the midwife had told Delanie, and Delanie had all but thrown her out of the house. (And Sarah with her.) Only her exhaustion after childbirth and Deodat had stopped her.

This time, there’s no one to stop her, but there’s really no need. There’s no Sarah and no midwife to toss out of the house, no one making comments about her eyes. Nothing but a slow simmering residual anger.

Delanie adds another log to the fire as a precaution, as the bottom most log crumbles in the stand under the weight of the new one, sending another wave of hot embers and crumbling ashen pieces over the brick floor. Blackened crumbs fall from the second old log not long after as the four settle into place. Delanie watches them a moment, the hot air stinging her face, wondering what lay in store for her family in the years to come.

And then comes a scratch at the window.

Delanie snaps her head up from the fire, the warmth rushing from her face. The curtains block her view of the window; she thinks for a moment that it’s a tree branch or a bush branch, but when it happens again, the sound is too deliberate, too calculated. Had it been a bush waving in the wind, the sound would have been more erratic and random. This is not.

She stands and backs away from the fire until the window is in full view. At first, she sees nothing. Then, a flicker of shadows, and a pair of yellow-green cat eyes appear in the window.

Delanie jumps back with a gasp, catching herself on the edge of the table before she goes tumbling to the ground. No matter how she tries, she can’t look away from the eyes in the window, and no matter how much she tries to convince herself, her gut tells her those aren’t regular cat’s eyes. The way they fixate on her is too human, too full of hunger and lust to be anything but human.

Her stomach warms with anger. “Sar—” But Sarah isn’t here anymore. Sarah’s dead.

As if the creature outside the window can sense her realization, it grins. Sharp white teeth greet Delanie, with a pair of _fangs_ half the size of her finger. The fangs and the eyes are all of the face that’s visible. They move through the dark with fluid ease, rising up to the middle of the window. Delanie’s heart pounds faster with each inch the face rises, her anger turns to cold fear that freezes her where she stands, takes her voice away. She can’t call for her sons or her husband.

Something of the creature moves, a long thin shadow Delanie can barely make out, and runs down the length of the window with a horrific shriek. Thin white lines are left in the glass from what are undeniably fingernails. Or claws. The the glass breaks, and before Delanie can find her voice, the creature is crawling through the window, over the couch and toward her in one fluid movement. 

Everything in Delanie wants her to _run, get away,_ but fear holds her tightly where she is, she can’t move, and the creature is getting closer to her. All she manages is a few inches back into the chair behind her before the creature towers over her, thin, bony fingers tangled in her hair, claws dug into her scalp. Delanie’s hands immediately go to the creature’s wrist, trying to pry its grip off her, but it only seems to hold tighter, until she feels blood dripping down the back of her neck. It pulls back her head, straining her neck and forcing her to look into its eyes. There is no compassion or mercy in the creature’s eyes. Only hunger and bloodlust.

The most Delanie manages is a strained cry. Elsewhere in the house, she hears Harold call her once—“Mother?”

The next thing she hears is her own screaming as the creature drives its fangs into her neck. Hot pain races up Delanie’s neck, through her shoulder, down her arm, and with it comes the distinctly uncomfortable sensation of having her blood drained from her neck. Her grip on the creature’s arm weakens and fails; her arms fall limply to her sides. Her vision is fading out.

_“Mother!”_

And then she’s on the ground, her head is spinning, the floor is turning circles around her. Is that Harold and Ephraim fighting off the creature? Is it only Harold? Is Deodat with them? Why are there more legs than there are men in the house?

And blood, there’s blood trailing down her neck. Delanie absently lifts a hand to her neck in a weak attempt to stem the bleeding. Warm liquid runs through her fingers. Her strength is fading too quickly for her pressing to have any effect. She’s bleeding out.

_I don’t want to die!_

How is that now, after all the death she’s been surrounded by in the last few years, Delanie is only now considering her own? Fifty-three isn’t old but it isn’t young, either. It’s somewhere in between, where at least Delanie is sure she still has a good few years ahead of her. Now, as her vision fails her, she’s sure she’s not going to live to see those years.

Voices fade into Delanie’s hearing. Faint, but enough that she can tell who’s who. Ephraim is yelling something. Harold’s legs disappear from view. Something soft is pressed against her neck. She’s rolled onto her back. Deodat has his hand on her neck, pressing a cloth against the wound. Ephraim is leaning over her. His mouth moves but her hearing has gone again; she can’t understand him.

Maybe it’s not the blood loss that’s effecting her but the way she fell. Maybe she hit her head.

The gray carpet is no longer in front of her face but below it; Deodat and Ephraim haul her to her feet and guide her to the couch. She collapses ungracefully; Ephraim presses the cloth to her neck with one hand, while pointing to something on the other side of the room. Deodat disappears from view. Harold has yet to return.

Delanie reaches up to grab Ephraim’s hand, feeling tears run from the corners of her eyes. “Don’t leave me,” she tries to say. “Ephraim, don’t go, don’t go. It’s going to come back, don’t leave me alone.” How much of it comes out as intelligible speech, she’s not sure.

But Ephraim leans over, cupping her cheek with a hand that’s stained lightly red. In a moment of mercy, his voice is clear to Delanie: “I’m staying right here, Mother. Father is on the phone with the doctor. He should be here shortly.”

Delanie tries to shake her head. Her heart is beginning to race again. Cold fear seeps into her bones; a faint, pale outline appears over Ephraim’s shoulder, white hair draped over one shoulder and a muddled expression of pure, unbridled fury. And Delanie knows: she’s not getting out of this alive.

_“Sarah.”_

“Hush, Mother. Sarah’s gone. She can’t hurt you.”

She stares up at Ephraim. Does he not see her? When Delanie looks back, neither does she. Sarah’s gone.

“You’ll be all right, Mother,” Ephraim says. He’s in rare form tonight, his tone is the gentlest Delanie has ever heard in all her years, and his hands, so rough with Sarah, are so kind to her, as he holds her face and the cloth to her neck. 

She takes a breath, laying her hand over Ephraim’s. Yes, he’s right. She’s going to be fine. Sarah can’t hurt her. That creature is gone, Harold is out making sure it won’t be coming back to attack her again, Deodat is on the phone with the doctor. Yes, it’s all right, she’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fi—

The bushes rustle.

Delanie’s heart races again at the sound, as Ephraim turns from her to the window, stiff and alert, even with one hand still pressing the cloth to her neck. She can’t fully see over the back of the couch, but she can make out the bushes waving in front of the window, some with the wind, some unnaturally. Something’s out there.

“ _Ephraim_ ,” she whispers.

Ephraim holds his free hand out to her— _Hush._ Delanie does.

A moment of silence passes. The only rustling of the bushes comes from the wind, and once the wind has stopped blowing, there’s silence. An eerie, unnerving silence. The calm before a storm. 

And a storm it is. The creature bursts through the broken window with a vengeance and a shriek. Instead of aiming for Delanie, it aims for Ephraim, tearing him away from her—

_“Ephraim!”_

Any attempt at sitting up makes Delanie’s head spin. She can’t help her son—the creature has him pinned on the floor, ripping at his shoulders, trying to go for his throat—

“ _Ephraim!_ ” Again Delanie tries to sit up and again she fails, she rolls onto the floor, blood dripping from her neck, but she has to help her son, she has to, she can’t let that thing rip him apart— _“Deodat! Ephraim!”_

“ _Ephraim_ ,” the creature snarls, looking over its shoulder at Delanie with a feral grin, _mocking her_. “ _Ephraim, Ephraim._ ” The very sound of its shrill, grating voice, repeating his name over and over puts cold fear in Ephraim’s eyes; Delanie isn’t seeing things, her son is being terrorized by this _monster_ —

(The monster her daughter sent after her—)

“Get away from him!” Delanie manages, somehow, to push herself up, even as her head spins and she watches Ephraim struggle under the grip of that creature—

Before it picks him up by the front of his shirt and throws him into the wall. Ephraim hits, narrowly missing the fireplace, with a gasp and a heavy thud. And doesn’t move.  
Delanie screams. _Not Ephraim! Not my son! Sarah, don’t you dare take him from me!_

_“Ephraim!”_

_“Delanie!”_ That’s Deodat’s voice, finally off the phone and moving down the hall, but too slowly.

The creature sets its sights on Delanie again. It stands and stalks toward her, fingers dripping with Ephraim’s blood, teeth bared in a feral, wicked grin, and there’s nothing Delanie can do to escape it. Blood loss has taken its toll on her. She can’t crawl away fast enough; for every quarter inch she manages to drag herself, by some miracle, the creature takes a full stride. It’s upon her just as Deodat rounds the corner.

 _“Delanie!”_ As he runs toward her, the creature pauses in its pursuit of Delanie to take a quick look at him before deciding time is of the essence and there’s not more to waste. It sinks its claws into her scalp again, tangling its fingers into her hair. Delanie screams in pain and fear as her hair is yanked and yanked hard, her head is drawn back, her throat bared—

_No, no not again!_

_“Deodat! Deodat!”_

_“Delanie!”_ Her husband reaches for her as the creature steps out the window—

Their hands brush—

Ephraim stirs—

_“Mother!”_

Deodat’s hand slips from Delanie’s and she’s out the window, her back slamming into the hard ground. She screams at the claws in her scalp and the tug on her hair as the creature drags her away, away, into the dark of the woods.

The last thing she sees is the light in the broken window and Ephraim leaning out, calling after her.

It’s undignified and unsightly, but it doesn’t matter, _that’s his mother_ —Ephraim ignores the spinning in his head and climbs out the window and bolts into the woods. He can still hear her, still hear his mother’s screams, _she’s not dead yet_ —

_“Mother! Mother! Delanie!”_

_“Ephraim, don’t!”_

A hand grabs Ephraim’s arm; he swings around, fist ready, before he realizes it’s only Harold holding him back from what may be the greatest mistake of his life. Even as Delanie screams somewhere deep in the woods, before the sound finally fades out. Ephraim rips his arm our of Harold’s grasp.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going after Mother,” Ephraim snaps. “Are you daft, Harold?”

“Of course not! But you certainly are! Running into the night without your head on straight, what are you thinking?”

“I’m not leaving her at the mercy of that _thing_.” Ephraim points toward the darkened woods as an owl screams and so does his mother, he can swear it if he listens closely enough.

“We can’t see a damn thing in there,” Harold says. “We’ll have to wait until morning.”

“And what certainty do you have that she’ll last until morning?”

A distant shriek only servers to bolster Ephraim’s concerns.

“None,” Harold admits. “But Mother needs us _alive_ if we’re going to find her. What use are we if we go in one at a time and get our throats ripped out?”

Ephraim hates that Harold is right. He hates that his younger sibling is the one who has the audacity to talk sense into him, when he’s always known exactly what he’s doing. He hates that anyone has to talk any kind of sense into him. But now is not the time for such petty grievances. Delanie’s life depends on it.

“If you so insist, Harold,” Ephraim grumbles. The sting of the scratches on his shoulders only just begins to come through, and he suspects they’ll grow worse by the time this ordeal is over. He straightens out his bloodied jacket, though what really is the point when he’s to go trapsing through the woods in a few hours, pausing only to look back over his shoulder once as yet another far distant sound cuts the night. 

He swears it’s Delanie.

Sleep doesn’t come to the Bellows. They wait anxiously until morning, sitting in the disheveled foyer, listening through the broken window for any signs of Delanie, for any sign she’s still alive. But the night has gone quiet. Only the owls cut through the dark silence, blissfully unaware that someone was dragged into their woods

(Not _died_. None of them are willing to say Delanie is _dead_ until they see for themselves.)

Ephraim paces the room, pausing every other moment to lean out the window; Harold sits at the table, alternating between propping his head up in his hands and hiding his face in his palms, muttering blame to himself, “I should have looked harder, I should have looked longer, I should have stayed inside and waited for it to come back—” and Deodat sits beside him, shellshocked, staring into nothing, the bloody cloth he’d had pressed against the open wound in Delanie’s neck in a crumpled heap in front of him. They say nothing, besides trying to call to Delanie throughout the night. They never get a response.

When at last the first hint of sun peaks over the horizon, the three are out in the woods, lanterns in hand to dispel the few remaining traces of night, pistols ready in case the creature dared to come back.

_“Delanie!”_

_“Mother!”_

_“Delanie!”_

But no matter how much they call, where or how hard they look, there’s no trace of Delanie. 

Ephraim, frustrated in their lack of progress, orders them to split up. “Harold, east. Father, west. Call if you find her.”

Harold nods and starts off. Deodat lingers a moment longer, a glassy stare in his eyes, before he too, shuffles off into the brightening woods. Ephraim watches them go, stomach twisting, wondering if the creature would dare come for any of them.

(He wonders if his father would willingly let it take him. For all else Delanie may have done, Deodat loved the woman, there was no denying that.)

Ephraim starts off on his own trek. His voice and Harold’s echo through the woods; Deodat’s sounds once or twice, cracked with grief. _Please, Lord, let us find her alive._ But somewhere in his gut, Ephraim knows otherwise. It’s a deep, sinking feeling, dragging him to exhaustion, but still he goes on. He ignores the feeling, forces himself to have hope, and keeps going. There has to be something. She has to be somewhere. How could she and the creature that took her simply vanish into the night?

“Ephraim!” At last, Harold’s voice cuts through the woods. Hope flares in Ephraim’s stomach— _He found her!_

And immediately burns away when he reaches Harold.

What’s on the ground in front of his brother is not Delanie, but traces of her. Signs of a struggle, drag marks, scraps of her pale chartreuse dress. And blood. As Ephraim looks closer, he spies a trail of blood drops running through the woods in both directions: out of the woods, and further in. 

“We’ll have to go in.” They don’t have a choice. They have to find Delanie. They have to.

They wait for Deodat to rejoin them; Ephraim watches his face twist with a mix of grief and soured hope. At this point, what hope can they expect to have? A few scraps of fabric and blood are hardly guaranteed signs of life. The hope Ephraim had forced himself to have is dwindling quickly, fading closer and closer to nothing the further into the woods they go.

The trail leads them on for miles, they’re sure, with more fabric pieces and blood. In the end, the trail leads them to a gaping hole in a hillside, a small dark cave. Ephraim holds the lantern to the opening. It has to go deeper, doesn’t it? They always do, these sorts of things, they always go for miles and miles without end, even the smallest of the openings. But this one has no continuation. A few feet deep, and then it ends. Not a spot of blood or dirt is to be found more than a few inches into the cave.

Ephraim drops the lantern. His shoulders burn.

Deodat falls to his knees. Harold drops beside him, propping him up, even as he begins crying.

_She’s gone._

His mother. Gone. Dragged off into the night, into some hell where he can’t reach her.

_She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone._

The last of the lantern light flickers. And goes out.

**Author's Note:**

> story: the window
> 
> ephraim: sarah is dead, mother, she can't hurt you  
> sarah:


End file.
